for her to speak about her poor mother. ‘Father has remarried. I am sure he will have mentioned this in your exchange of letters.’
‘Yes, so I recall.’
In her heart, Isobel felt her father had betrayed her mother by remarrying so soon. The words caught in her throat.
It irked her that after prevaricating for so long, Count Lucien had merely to snap his fingers and she must come running. Her new stepmother, Lady Angelina, must have been thrilled when his summons had arrived, for she had wasted no time in packing Isobel off. Isobel could have remained at St Foye’s, but the convent was clearly too close to Turenne for Lady Angelina’s comfort. Notwithstanding this, Isobel would have felt she was betraying her father if she complained at being so easily dismissed.
If only her father had ridden to St Foye’s to bid her farewell. Conques was not far from Turenne. Isobel understood that his illness had probably prevented it, but she would have liked a private message of Godspeed. Instead, her father had simply forwarded Lucien’s summons to Mother Edina. And Mother Edina had duly relayed it to Isobel along with the news that her escort awaited outside the convent gates, and would she please pack up her belongings without delay.
She cleared her throat. ‘My lord, despite his marriage, Father is not in good health. He will remain in Turenne.’
‘I hope he recovers swiftly,’ the Count said.
He looked so sombre, Isobel had a depressing thought. If her father and Angelina had a son, and despite her father’s ill health that was possible, then Isobel would no longer be an heiress. Was Count Lucien regretting arranging a marriage with a woman who might never come into an inheritance?
I want Count Lucien to want me! I don’t want him to reject me because he considers me a poor prospect.
How lowering to feel this way.
‘Count Lucien, a word if you please?’ The Abbess gestured him to one side. They went to stand under the window and although Abbess Ursula’s tone became confidential, she had a carrying voice. ‘I cannot help but notice that Lady Isobel is in need of … discipline. I fear her father gave her too much licence at Turenne.’
The Count drew his head back. ‘Lady Isobel has spent much of her time in St Foye’s Convent—I would venture that the good nuns there, rather than Viscount Gautier, are responsible for her upbringing. She will not prevail on your hospitality for long. I am making arrangements for her to lodge at Count Henry’s palace.’
‘Lady Isobel’s maid is sick, my lord. Lady Isobel will have to remain here until the girl has recovered.’
Before she knew it, Isobel had stepped forwards. ‘I am perfectly capable of packing my belongings myself, Reverend Mother.’
‘And I should be pleased to help,’ Elise said, from her place in the shadows.
The Abbess lifted an eyebrow. ‘Very well. I suppose I should expect nothing less.’
‘What can you mean?’
‘Lady Isobel, from the moment you have arrived, you have shown little sense of propriety.’ She huffed out a breath and frowned at the Count. ‘Your betrothed needs a firm bridle, my lord. This morning she left the convent without permission. It grieves me to confess that she has been wandering about the county like a pedlar’s daughter.’
Lucien watched a flush run into Isobel’s cheeks. She was staring stolidly at a cross on the wall. She came to find me. She might have arrived in Troyes a month before she was expected, but Abbess Ursula was not going to be permitted to bully her. ‘Lady Isobel rode to Ravenshold,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, I had given my men orders to admit no one and she was turned away.’
‘Be that as it may, Lady Isobel should not have left the Abbey without my leave.’
Isobel stepped forwards. ‘I took an escort.’ Large green eyes turned towards him. ‘My father’s men-at-arms escorted me from Turenne. They did not leave my side for a moment.’
Abbess Ursula made a clucking sound with her tongue. ‘Lady Isobel should not have gone without my permission. Such disobedience. Such wilfulness. I am sorry to have to tell you, Lord d’Aveyron, but you will find Lady Isobel needs a very firm bridle.’
‘I am certain you exaggerate.’ Thus far, Lucien was surprisingly pleased with the way his betrothed had turned out. So much so, that he was beginning to think that his luck might have turned. It seemed that way.
Isobel was pretty, nay, pretty was too pallid a word for Isobel’s golden beauty. She was beautiful. And she had a demure look to her—that neat figure, that simple gown—that gave the lie to the warnings the Abbess was giving about her character. Isobel looked to be precisely the sort of good, biddable wife he wanted. A lady. Someone who—unlike Morwenna—had been bred to duty and obedience. Isobel of Turenne would give him children and she would look after them. And Lucien would be free to manage his life and his estates as he always did. Just look at her. The golden hair concealed by that veil was, he suspected, more soft and fair than that of Queen Guinevere. Were those cherry-coloured lips as sweet as they looked?
‘I do not exaggerate, my lord, I assure you,’ the Abbess said. ‘At any rate, you will be pleased to hear I have put a stop to such behaviour. I have dismissed her escort.’
Lucien felt himself go still. Isobel was no longer a child, and she would shortly be his bride. It was one thing for the Abbess to chastise Lady Isobel whilst she was in her charge, but that she should take it upon herself to dismiss Viscount Gautier’s escort was unthinkable. ‘You did what?’
‘I sent them to Troyes Castle.’
‘You did not have that right, Reverend Mother,’ Lucien said, softly. ‘Viscount Gautier sent that escort for Lady Isobel’s protection.’
‘My Abbey is a house of God, not a barracks!’
‘None the less, you should not have dismissed Lady Isobel’s escort. I am confident that if Viscount Gautier trusts his men to accompany his daughter from Turenne, they are more than competent to protect her whilst she explores Champagne.’
Abbess Ursula looked sourly at his betrothed. ‘Have it as you will, my lord. Since Lady Isobel promises to be rather too lively a guest for my Abbey, I am happy to wash my hands of her. It would not do for her to disrupt my other ladies.’ Her breast heaved and she swept to the door. ‘Count Lucien, never say I did not warn you how wilful she is. I wish you joy. Come along, Sister, I want to discuss your idea for the sisters’ stall at the Winter Fair.’
Lucien watched her go. ‘What a dragon,’ he murmured.
Isobel could not be sure she had heard him correctly. ‘My lord?’
‘We shall be married in little over a week. I would be honoured if you would call me Lucien. And I should like to call you Isobel, if that is acceptable?’
‘I … yes, of course,’ Isobel said, bemused to be granted this privilege after years of being forgotten. Many wives were never given permission to dispense with the formalities. He ignores me for years, and suddenly I am free to call him Lucien? It made no sense.
He turned to Elise who seemed struck with shyness and would not look at him. ‘Who is this?’
‘A friend. My lo—Lucien, this is Elise … Elise, this is my betrothed, Count Lucien d’Aveyron.’
Head rigidly down, Elise made her curtsy. ‘Good day, mon seigneur.’
‘Good day, Elise.’ The Count—Lucien—glanced through the door and back at Isobel. ‘Is your maid very sick?’
‘I don’t think it is serious, but she’s been put in the infirmary.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I am not sure. I suspect she ate something that disagreed with her. She has been most violently ill.’
‘Can